


Inclination Angle

by misaffection



Category: Death in Paradise
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-05
Updated: 2013-03-05
Packaged: 2017-12-04 09:42:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/709326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misaffection/pseuds/misaffection
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richard takes Camille out on a date. It goes better than he ever expected...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inclination Angle

Richard’s luggage turns up in time for his date. Not that he’s thinking of it like that – well, trying not to – but he’s grateful that he doesn’t have to go in a sweat-stained shirt and rumpled trousers. Though even fresh clothing isn’t going to put him close to Camille, as she’s a way of wearing anything and making it look good. By now, he’s completely sure she could put on a potato sack and still look sexy as sin.

Looking at himself in the mirror, he can’t see any reason why she likes him. Okay, so he’s not ugly exactly but… well, he’s not Brad Pitt either. His skin is pasty white, his hair is thinning too much for his liking and years of soft living have made him squishy. He pokes his stomach with a sigh. What the hell a vivacious, beautiful woman is doing dating him, he’s no idea.

But there’s something and she’ll pinch him again if she guesses at his thoughts. He shakes his head and roots through his suitcases. He is not going in a suit, because it’s too strait-laced and it’s hot and he wants to surprise her. He can’t even imagine what her reaction to him casually dressed will be.

He pulls out a pair of dark blue jeans. He can’t remember the last time he wore them, and they were shoved in as a sort-of-rebellion against everything he’s been for so long. But they fit, just about, and he feels younger and far more confident.

Richard Poole is dead, he thinks with a wry smile. Long live Richard Poole.

And coming back does feel like a rebirth of sorts. Even knowing that he wasn’t staying in London, he’d been impatient to get back to Saint-Marie, though London was cooler and the tea decent and he’d been able to watch proper TV. It had also been greyer, and not just because of the clouded skies. He’d missed the colour of Saint-Marie, the friendliness of the people, and he’d missed Camille.

He pauses, the long, lonely nights an all-too-recent memory. He knows she missed him – he’d seen it on her face, in that moment before she pasted a quick smile in place of the pain. He remembers the press of her lips, the sudden eagerness. It’s not quite within regulation, but he can’t bring himself to care. He’ll talk to the commissioner about it, if things develop enough to warrant that.

His attention drops back to the clothing scattered across his bed. He plucks a pale blue shirt and considers it. The sleeves are short, the neck designed to wear loose and there’s a sort of tribal print that curls around the right-hand side and then flares over the back. The darker colour matches his jeans, so he shrugs it on and fastens the buttons, then turns to the mirror.

The result surprises him. Camille is going to be stunned. Or at least, he rather hopes that’s what happens.

Richard tidies the bed, wasting the minutes until he’s due to go pick her up. His wrist watch is on the bedside table. He picks it up, then puts it down again. No. Tonight he’s going to not be quite so damn British. He’s going to relax and enjoy the evening, the meal and his company, even if it kills him.

Time marches on and finally it’s near enough. He can be early for her – he doubts she’ll mind. He walks down the beach, feeling each step sink into the sand. For once it doesn’t bother him, and the soft breeze is a welcome whisper of fresh air after the stillness of the day. He breathes in, the smell of salt and sand ones he never thought he’d come to like. To love. He shakes his head and wonders when this tiny island became more home to him than London. He suspects it has to do with where his heart lies, and that is with one impossible half-French woman who shouts at him when he’s being stubborn but is always there when he’s less sure.

He is, he knows, falling in love. He’s fought it for a year, as he’s fought the way she’s wriggled under his skin. But he can’t deny it any longer. He lives to see that wide smile and her laugh brightens his darkest mood. He feels different when he’s with her; somehow more awkward but and more certain at the same time.

She confuses him, challenges him, makes him feel things he thought long abandoned. It bothered him once. He can no longer remember why.

She’s waiting on the porch. He watches her lips part and her eyes widen. He grins. Her cheeks darken and her glance is almost shy. Realising he’s disarmed her gives him a thrill. He’d never known he could do that to a woman. Even if it’s just her, he’s fine with that. Great with that, because there is no one else.

“Hi,” he says and her answering smile is coy.

“Hi. You look… fabulous.” Her eyes shine and he knows it’s because she’s realised this is for her. “ _Magnifique._ ”

Now this he’s been looking forward to. “ _Tu es superbe,_ ” he says and then chuckles at the utter shock that washes over her face

“Richard! You spoke French! Are you ill?”

He bats the hand she puts to his forehead away, chuckling further as he pulls her into a tight embrace. “It was worth doing to see your face. Don’t expect more though – I’m not great at languages. I’m sure my accent was terrible.”

“I’m sure I don’t care.”

She wraps her arms around his neck and he takes the hint. He kisses her slowly, teasing her lips apart and then tasting her thoroughly. She shudders in his arms, a reaction that makes him go hard. God, he wants her. The desire is alien and makes him falter. But she just smiles and pecks his check.

“Come on,” she says. “Let’s go get dinner.”

Richard is thankful for the cool breeze as it takes the edge of the heat burning through him. Though how he’s going to survive an evening next to the sexiest woman on the island, he has no idea. She links her arm with his and leans in as they walk. He knows they look like a couple to anyone they pass. He tries not to worry about that, but doesn’t quite get there.

“It bothers you, doesn’t it?”

He glances at her. “What does?”

“Being seen out with someone in a non-professional capacity.”

“Honestly? Yes. I wonder what people are thinking, what they’re going to say. It’s stupid, I know, but…” He shrugs. “It’s just that I’m used to being the butt of jokes and gossip. I can’t imagine anyone seeing us and being nice about it. And I’d really not have you exposed to that sort of cruelty.”

She leans in closer. “That is so sweet, but please don’t worry about me, Richard. I’m a big girl and I can take care of myself.” She angles a smile up at him. “And I don’t care what anyone thinks.”

“I don’t imagine that you do.”

“You shouldn’t either.”

Easier said than done. “I am trying not to, Camille.”

She squeezes his arm. “I know. I think you’re doing brilliantly. You came back such a different man.”

They’re almost at the restaurant, but she’s left him an opening that he can’t let slip by. “Not really,” he disagrees. “Just one determined to enjoy himself more. And you.”

Her blush is worth the stumble of words. She doesn’t say anything, but rather gives him another kiss on the cheek before skipping away and into the restaurant. Richard laughs softly and follows her.

Despite having to sit on several misgivings, and bite his tongue frequently to stop himself from saying something stupid, Richard gets through dinner and actually has a good time. Camille has even giggled over his terrible jokes. Now, with his stomach pleasantly full and half a bottle of wine buzzing through his veins, he walks with her along the beach, right by where the ocean washes up the sand. There’s no moon, but the dark sky is full of stars. It’s… romantic.

Richard hasn’t thought of himself as romantic before now: he’s understood the principles but not the purpose. It’s seemed like so much effort, but with Camille there’s no effort needed. He’s finding that he doesn’t need to try. Not when it’s her.

Her hand is in his and it’s the most natural thing on Earth. So is pulling her into his arms on the porch. Kissing her under the stars. She grips the collar of his shirt and backs him up. He reaches blindly, manages to open the door.

His shirt drops to the floor. Her hands are soft and warm as they investigate what she’s uncovered. He shivers at her touch, at how quickly she undoes him. He whispers her name and then a question.

“Are you sure?”

“Very.” She offers him a glittering smile. Her eyes echo the hunger he feels. “Aren’t you?”

It’s a fair question, given his past reticence. “Yes. How could I not be? You are beautiful.”

She steps back, shrugging out of her dress before he’s even thought to formulate a protest at her distance. All she wears beneath is a very brief pair of knickers. He lets his gaze roam, because she obviously wants it to, and takes in the hollow of her neck, the swell of small but perfect breasts and the flat plane of her stomach. She stirs him to a stronger passion, a hot need he has to fill.

“Very beautiful,” he amends, voice hoarse.

She giggles and steps closer. He gasps as she presses to him, her breasts flattening against his chest. Her nipples are firm points. The realisation that she’s aroused, that she wants him, is something that flummoxes him, but he’s not about to start asking questions now.

Her behind fits his hands as if it was meant to be there. She giggles again as he hitches her up. Her arms circle his neck, bracing, though he’s no intention of dropping her. He’s no intention of letting her go full stop.

Somehow he makes it to the bed. He stumbles at the last moment and they tumble onto the mattress, laughing then kissing and hands roaming. Richard thinks he might be slightly drunk. Perhaps not on the wine, though. Perhaps it’s just her. She tastes better, that’s for sure. She squirms when he tongues the hollow above her collarbone.

“Richard.”

It’s a soft sigh, a whisper of surrender. It’s also terribly arousing and he’s going to make an idiot of himself if she gives him much more encouragement. The jeans are far too restrictive and he rolls off the bed to sort that out.

Camille watches him, a lazy smile on her face. When he climbs back and crawls closer, she wraps her arms with a hum of satisfaction. She toys with his hair, strokes one cheek. Her eyes shine in the dimness and he knows that look. His lips part. She, of course, abuses his moment of defencelessness. Not that he minds, not when it involves her tongue in his mouth.

He shifts over. She parts her legs and hooks one around his. He wonders if this is going too fast, if he should draw it out more, but he needs her now. Looking into her face, he thinks she feels the same way. Time for slower later.

She arches on a groan. Her nails dig into his shoulders. He’s too busy being lost in the tight wetness of her to care all that much. She feels perfect. He feels like he’s truly come home. He strokes her hair and kisses her once, then lets his body do all the talking his mouth simply can’t, showing her the depth of his emotions through action instead of the words that just tangle on his tongue.

Words tumble from her lips, English mixing with French as he pushes in harder. She curls around him, whispers encouragement and something he suspects is extremely dirty. Her gaze bores into his – she doesn’t close her eyes, does shut him out – and he knows that there will be no denying this. No excuses and certainly no apologies.

“More,” she breathes. “Richard, _mon dieu,_ please.”

Begging will get her anything. Everything. All he is. He lets go and loses himself in her. Soft cries fill his ears. She grabs harder, pulls closer, straining for that high he holds just out of reach. He’s not ready to give her that. Not yet.

“Camille.” Whatever she hears in his voice stills her. He slows. He can’t take his eyes off her and just like that, he knows the tense is wrong. He isn’t falling. He’s already crashed, headlong and hopelessly. “I love you.”

She stares at him, colour high on her cheeks. Her eyes fill and she touches his face again, her lips moving without a sound. He’s rendered her speechless, he realises and that makes him grin.

“I think you’re supposed to say it back now,” he teases gently.

“You know I do.”

“Of course I do.” He wasn’t that sure, but he can pretend. He has a reputation to uphold after all. “But if you want that itch scratched, you’re going to have to give me something in return.”

Camille blinks, then hits his shoulder. “I should do you for extortion,” she laughs. But her arms circle his neck and she kisses him lingeringly. “I love you, Richard Poole. Even if you are the most impossible man I have ever met. Now damn well finish what you started.”

Richard grins. It’s been a while but it’s like riding a bike. Though perhaps he won’t share that insight out loud – he’s not that stupid. What he does do is bury his face in the crook of her neck, breathing her in as he drives in hard and fast. She clutches at him, gasping and moaning, the tension rising in her body.

He knows the principles, even if he’s not had much practise at them, and he adjusts the angle just so. She gives a high keen and shudders hard, falling apart beneath him. He gathers her to his chest, holding her as her clenching muscles pull him into the abyss after her.

For a moment there’s nothing but her. The smell of her sweat mingling with perfume, the touch of her body pulsing around him, the sound of her gasps as she pulls oxygen into her lungs. It’s a moment of pure and utter bliss, a high greater than the climax that shakes his limbs. And this is it, he knows. Love. In all its stupid, emotional, fabulous glory.

He’s lost to time and Camille, but eventually his breathing levels out and his heart no longer feels like its trying to escape his ribs. He slips from her reluctantly and flops onto his back. She rolls and cuddles close. He smiles, hugging her and pressing a kiss to her temple.

“For once in my life, I have no idea what comes next,” he says, his humour up despite that confession. “Where we go from here.”

Camille shrugs. “Do we need to know?”

“It would seem not.”

She sits then, and shakes out her hair. Her glance is mischievous. “I suppose it depends on how tired you are.”

He had been feeling the pull of muscles. It’s gone in an instant. “What did you have in mind?”

Her hands rest on his chest. She leans down and kisses him once. Then one hand sweeps dangerously low. “I thought I’d investigate the discovery I’ve made,” she says. “You know, explore every angle, and make sure I have the right man.”

“And then?” He barely gets the question out.

“Then make sure he doesn’t get away from me.”

“Not much chance of that happening.” He’s no intention of going anywhere, not without her at any rate. “Fraid you’re rather stuck with me.”

Camille chuckles. Her hand reaches its target. His breath hitches in his throat. “What a terrible shame,” she murmurs against his lips. “But since I do have you…”

She moves over him. Richard forgets the exhaustion tugging at him, the ache of old joints. In fact everything that isn’t her mouth on his skin, her hand at his crotch and the exquisite havoc she makes of him.

When she finally crumples again, he pulls her down, tugs the sheet over them and keeps her close. And resolves that he always will do.


End file.
